A Wolf Reborn
by DreamFyre
Summary: "Sometimes… I wish I could be like the rain. If I were, then would I have a way to connect two hearts back together, the way the rain connects the earth and the sky, even though the two can never touch?" - G.R.R.M released a new Winds of Winter chapter called Mercy. This one shot follows the events after Arya kills Raff the Sweetling. Arya finally figures out what she truly wants.


**Here is my first one shot.  
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**As you know, G.R.R.M just released a new Winds of Winter chapter named Mercy. It is an Arya Pov. It is brilliantly written, but really hits home and makes you feel super sad about Arya. Read the Mercy chapter before reading my one shot, or you won't understand whats happening.  
**

**This happens straight after Arya kills Raff the Sweetling.**

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**A Wolf Reborn**

"Mercy, Mercy, Mercy," Arya sang sadly. Raff the Sweetling fell dead at her feet, bleeding like a stuck pig from his cut throat and leg. Blood stained her callused hands, wig and shapeless brown wool dress. She frowned, scolding herself for her impatience. _I should have helped him down the steps before I killed him, and rolled him into the canal._ The eels would have done the rest. But it didn't matter.

The gods had given her a gift. A gift she could not turn away. How could she? Arya wiped clean her finger knife and felt nothing has she studied the lifeless body. _Ser Gregor_, she remembered. _Dunsen, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei, the Frey's of the Crossing_. Her daily prayer. Or was it? _yes_, she thought, _ mine, always mine._ The voice of the night wolf scratched at her inner walls. _Remember who you are, _it whispered.

The pool of warm blood widened, tickling her feet. Splatter of scarlet streaked across the wooden walls and floor. "Mercy, Mercy, Mercy, what have I done?" She sighed and casually walked to the basin. Messy business it was, but had to be done. The reflection she saw was not her own, but Mercedene, who everyone called Mercy. The wig was soft on her shaved scalp; stained red and damp. Auburn they had chosen for the color, for she was to play Sansa Stark in the play. _My dead sister, _she told herself, _say her name. Remember who you are. _"…Sansa," Arya whispered. "Sansa, Sansa, Sansa, Sansa." The words rolled off her tongue, but still she felt nothing. _Remember who you are._ Perhaps she would feel something later…

She bit her lip, the first time in months. Mercy was to be raped and murdered by the vile dwarf, but the rain of blood had sprayed her as well, and the second act would start soon and she didn't have enough time to clean. _How would I explain this?_ No, she didn't think she could. Arya pulled off the wig, splashed cool water over her face and scalp. "Arya," she told Mercy. "I'm Arya Stark and your dead." And she was, once again.

Mercy was a foolish, giddy girl, but good hearted. Arya would miss her, and she would miss Daena and the Snapper and the rest, even Izembaro and the vile Bobono. This would make trouble for the Sealord and the envoy with the chicken on his chest, she did not doubt. But she could care little. _Izembaro won't like this, nor will the Kindly man. _They had blinded her earlier than planned after she killed Dareon, the deserter of the Night's Watch. And Arya knew for certain that a second unsanctioned kill would mean her expulsion from the guild.

But she already had a grasp on how to change her own face, be it more painful than when the Kindly man did it, but she knew the way, and practice makes perfect. _I don't need them anymore. _Arya understood Braavosi and could speak it fluently, she had even lost all of her barbaric accent, but the kindly man had not been content. He insisted that she improve her High Valyrian and learn the tongues of Lys and Pentos too. And she had, to her own surprise. She also knew the names and uses of many poisons, and different ways to conceal blades and where to cut to kill a man quick.

_Men are weak creatures, _she thought. And she was proven right with Raff the Sweetling. A sweet smile and a promise of pleasure were all that was necessary to lure him alone. Though Arya had not expected him to grab her wrist and force his tongue into her mouth. _It was Mercy he kissed, not Arya_. _It doesn't count_, she thought, and found it odd that she cared so much. But all that mattered was that he was dead and a name was crossed off her list.

In one swift motion she pulled her stained dress over her head and let it drop to the floor, followed by her smallclothes and damp stockings. Gooseprickles covered her legs and arms. Dipping a rough cloth in the basin filled with brackish water, she washed herself head to heel, standing on one leg at a time to scrub her calloused feet. After that she found her razor. A few cuts were all that was needed to remove the face. So she went to work, the way the Kindly man had shown. It would take much more practice for her to change her appearance at will, like Jaqen H'ghar had done, so she was stuck with her true face for now.

After that she walked around the blood and found a spare wig which she hid just in case. The long brown hair reminded her of her true hair, a keepsake of sorts. She fashioned the wig upon her scalp, donned fresh smallclothes, and slipped a grey dress down over her head. Her boots were lumps of old brown leather mottled with saltstains and cracked from long wear, her belt a length of hempen rope dyed black. She knotted it about her waist, and hung a knife on her right hip and a coin pouch on her left. Last of all she threw her cloak across her shoulders. It was a thick cloak, black wool lined in red silk, with a hood to keep the rain off, and three secret pockets too. She'd hid some coins in one of those, and two blades in the remaining.

"_Valar morghulis_," she whispered as she descended the wooden stair to the street. The handrail was splintery, the steps steep, and there were five flights, but that was why she'd gotten the room so cheap. _That, and Mercy's smile._ But Arya had no more use of Mercy, she was dead and gone and only the night wolf remained. _Remember who you are. _ The day was cold and foggy. The fog was good, easy to hide in.

Izembaro would be angry, so very angry. Mercy was a key character in the second act, it would have been her first lines in the show, and he would have her pretty little empty head if she were late for her own rape. But Mercy was dead and she would think about that later. Just now, there was no time. _I had best run_. Mercy was last seen with the dead Westerosi guard, and Mercy was the one they would look for.

The mists seemed to part before her and close up again as she passed. The cobblestones were wet and slick under her feet. She heard a cat yowl plaintively. Braavos was a good city for cats, and they roamed everywhere, especially at night. _In the fog all cats are grey_, Arya thought. _In the fog all men are killers_.

She had never seen a thicker fog than this one. On the larger canals, the watermen would be running their serpent boats into one another, unable to make out any more than dim lights from the buildings to either side of them. It was another gift, so she thought it best to bypass the Gate altogether and walk to the House of Black and White, under the natural cloak of fog.

Houses, shops and warehouses crowded together, leaning on each other like drunken lovers, their upper stories so close that you could step from one balcony to the next. The streets below became dark tunnels where every footfall echoed. Arya was light on her feet, and made little noise. Even though no one would recognize her face, she was still cautious.

She walked over the many bridges and made for the Isle of the Gods. The sword she had hid all those moons ago was waiting for her. _Jon gave me it. _Something was pulling her toward the Braavosi blade, something queer and long forgotten. How long had it been since she last thought of them properly? Her family. But they were all dead now, everyone but her half-brother, Jon. Some nights she heard talk of him, in the taverns of the Ragman's Harbor. The Black Bastard of the Wall, one man had called him. _Would Jon even recognize me now?_ That made her sad, sadder than she thought possible.

"Remember who you are," she whispered to herself.

The last bridge was made of rope and raw planks, and seemed to dissolve into nothingness, but that was only the fog. Arya scampered across, her heels ringing on the wood. The fog opened before her like a tattered grey curtain to reveal the Isle of the Gods and its many temples.

The dock was heavily shadowed in fog by the time she got there. The temple's black tile roof came to a sharp peak, like the houses along the canals. The House of Black and White sat upon a rocky knoll of dark grey stones that seemed to fade into the fog. Half way up the stairs, one of the stones rocked beneath her feet. _This one. _She remembered hiding Needle here. Arya knelt and dug around its edges with her fingers. The stone shifted easily. She grunted and got both hands in and pulled.

"There you are," she told Needle. "I've come for you." She grabbed the sword and sheath from behind the step, then shoved the stone back into place.

Holding Needle brought back memories, memories long forgotten. Or rather, memories she pushed away. Memories of Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and her father, even Sansa. Memories of Winterfell's grey walls, and the laughter of its people. The summer snows, Old Nan's stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Memories of Jon Snow's smile. _He used to mess my hair and call me "little sister,"_ she remembered, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

How long had it been since there were tears in her eyes? How long had it been since she let the memories enfold her, instead of pushing them away? Arya sat on the stone step and looked into the fog, remembering who she was, and who she'll ever be. _Where will I go?_ She had the list in her head, and a means to achieve her revenge. But there was also Jon at the wall… the last of her living family.

Arya glanced down at the sword and smiled as tears rolled down her cheeks.

She finally realized what she truly wanted, and it seemed so easy, once she capitulated. It seemed natural and right.

Why did she need to forsake one to have the other?

After all, a wolf needs a pack, and only in a pack is the wolf the strongest.

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**********I just want to pull Arya out of the abyss of darkness that's consuming her.**

**"He who seeks vengeance must dig two graves: one for his enemy and one for himself" **

**I fear her revenge will ultimately destroy her. **

**I really want her to find some happiness at the end, though we all know she will never be the same. She's just seen so much...  
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**Anyway review and tell me if you liked it. Also in the future, I might turn this into a long story, her going to the wall etc. Maybe.  
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